


The Children of the Cursed

by inkwellgal



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 6th Century, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambrosius Aurelius - Freeform, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Catholicism, Christianity, F/F, F/M, Gwen Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Lady of the Lake - Freeform, M/M, Minor Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Morgana Knows about Merlin's Magic (Merlin), No Emrys, The Lady Vivian, Uther has a brother, merlin's father is named Wyllt, merlin's mom is named Adhan instead of Hunith, nimueh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 09:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27968099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwellgal/pseuds/inkwellgal
Summary: A new spin on the Arthurian legends, with Merlin and Arthur as lovers. Basically revising a lot of the flaws I saw in the BBC Merlin series, with a lot of the same characters and events, while also drawing heavily on the old legends, and inventing some new ideas of my own. Imagine it as a reboot of the series, but in fic form.Morgana, Gwen, Vivian, and Nimueh will all be more fleshed out, complex, and sympathetic than they were in the TV show.This story deals heavily with Merlin's father - who is nothing like Merlin's father from the TV show, but is instead a way for me to reconcile with Merlin's character and actions in the original legends. In those stories, Merlin is much older than Arthur, is directly responsible for his birth, and does a few morally reprehensible (that is, misogynistic) things prior to Arthur being born. I've decided to give that role to Merlin's father Wyllt (named after Myrddin Wyllt, a Welsh legend on whom Merlin is partially based).Merlin and Arthur are both faced with the problematic legacies that their fathers left behind, and the destinies which have been forced upon them.Can they change their fates, or are they doomed to repeat the mistakes of their ancestors?
Relationships: Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Lancelot/Merlin (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Will (Merlin), Morgana/Vivian (Merlin)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	1. Episode 1: Two Dragons

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, after watching the show and being, like most people, extremely upset about the ending, I did research into the original Arthurian legends out of desperation for more content. And what I found was...just so much, and so so different from the show. The main thing I learned about these legends is that they're all basically centuries worth of fanfics, written by a bunch of different authors - which I think is so cool. So I wanted to add my own take on it, while also dealing with the trauma that the show left me with. 
> 
> I also noticed while watching, just how badly the show handles the female characters, especially Morgana and Nimueh. I was sooo fucking frustrated by what happened to Morgana. 
> 
> While I was looking around Wikipedia, I discovered that they both have wildly different portrayals depending on which legends you read, but the trend I noticed is that the more recent/more religiously influenced the work, the more likely they are to be antagonists. In this story, a lot of the focus is gonna be on righting the wrongs that were done to these characters, via some prophecy defying shenanigans.
> 
> Both the Dragon and Gaius will still be in the story, but I always questioned their intentions while watching the show, so watch out for them. They have strong ties to Merlin's bitch of a father.
> 
> I will usually start every chapter with a flashback, based on Arthurian legends. This chapter starts with Merlin's childhood, when he is three years old. It involves King Vortigern, a character from Geoffrey of Monmouth's "Historia Regum Britanniae," who usurped the throne from Uther's older brother Constans.
> 
> If the backstory bores you, feel free to skip it, the rest of the chapter is Merlin/Will, just before Merlin leaves for Camelot.

According to the legends of Mortals, the Devil once devised a plot to ensure the destruction of the world, by planting in the mortal realm an agent of his own unholy will. A demonic child. He instructed several of his followers to disguise themselves as human men, and spread their seed, impregnating mortal women across the earth in the hopes that one of their progeny would possess an evil strong enough to rival Christ.

Merlin was not one such child. It’s true he was born of, let’s say unearthly means, but whether he was born of the Devil, no one is entirely sure. By his mother Adhan’s accounts, his father was truly a devil of a man, a wicked, itinerant spirit, a coldhearted bewitcher - but, being a child, Merlin never could tell if she meant all this literally. All anyone knew for sure, was that Merlin’s father was a scoundrel, who left Adhan as quickly as he came. 

But it was certain, he was no mere mortal, and little Merlin was evidence of that fact.

Fortunately for all of us, regardless of who laid claim to her son’s soul, Adhan could always beat the devil out of him. And he would always think of her wrath before he thought of doing any wicked deeds.

Being a well-read, well-spoken nun, Adhan took care to show Merlin the bible. She read verses to him every night while he was in her womb, whilst she huddled in the back of a smuggler’s cart, fleeing Camelot for some vague village which had only halfway turned to Christianity. She read to him, not because she was especially pious, and wanted her child to be born pious, but because she wanted him to be intelligent. She wanted him to be born with stories and language, so that he could rely on words to help him through the world, as they had helped her.  
And also, because she was afraid. The chances of her cart being intercepted by knights or highwaymen was considerably high, and, on the off-chance that God was listening, she hoped that he might look down on her and her unborn child with some favor.

Well, Merlin was intelligent. More so than Adhan ever could have hoped. By age 3, it was he who read the verses - albeit not as eloquently as Adhan had, but she would get him there in time. He already expressed himself with more ease than the other children of Ealdor, which, to Adhan’s disappointment, meant that he was often caught taking advantage of them - not in any outright evil way. It was just that he could get the better of them in games that required wit or wordplay, or when he wanted one of them to give him something that was theirs, and that he possessed the necessary vocabulary to prove that it was his all along. 

So most kids and parents decided early on that they didn’t like Merlin, until he later won them over with his charm, and with his other gifts.  
For example, Merlin could tell the future by staring at the village livestock. It had started as a simple game of storytelling, which came to him as second nature on account of all the bible verses. This speckled chicken would be married to that skinny chicken, who was secretly in love with the chicken with the broken beak, and so on. It was a lot of melodrama, which was all good and entertaining, until Merlin noticed the sudden animosity between two chickens. He interpreted it as a sign that the speckled one had discovered the skinny one’s transgression, and told his friends as much. One of the neighbor kids went home and told the story to his thin mother and freckled father, who, already suspecting an affair between his wife and the broken-nosed butcher, was not pleased by this tale.

That was the first time Merlin was accused of sorcery. The second time was when he was caught making the chickens float.

And the fifty first, was on the day two soldiers came from Camelot, seeking a child of unholy origins.

They stood by the front door, sneering at the tattered furniture, as they addressed Adhan. 

“This is your only child?” The first one asked. 

Merlin stared up at him, disinterested. Though he was only three years old, he looked to the soldiers to be about nine or ten. This was due to another one of his gifts, which had only just begun to develop, and was driving Adhan mad. She knew he couldn’t control it any more than he could control his premonitions, his intelligence, or his compulsion to make things float. But here she found herself staring daggers at the boy, as if the force of her gaze might keep his magic in place, and stop him from changing back into the form of a toddler.

Adhan nodded, looking back at the soldier reluctantly. “Yes, but-”

The first one cut her off. “And it’s true he has no father?”

“Yes. But, if you’ll excuse me, why would you be looking for a child such as this? I’m sure you would find a great bounty of fatherless children as far out as this kingdom stretches, if you were to continue your search elsewhere.”

“We do not wish to continue our search,” the second one, who had been doing most of the sneering, declared.

The first soldier tried to be more gracious. “We have spent the whole night visiting the homes of your neighbors, and while it is true that many of these homes lack fathers, many more of them directed us here, claiming that your son had put a curse on them, and that they would like to see him gone. Unless you can name a more fitting child, I see no reason to search elsewhere.”  
It was true. Merlin had accidentally cursed a handful of their neighbors, but only the ones who were assholes, and not without a proper chastising from his mother, and a promise to never do it again. This, the soldiers did not need to know. 

Adhan looked at each of them, calculating. She took a breath, to give life to her speech.

“And you are to believe the wild accusations of the impoverished and downtrodden? While I would hesitate to call my fellow people liars, I know from experience that conditions are so poor here in Ealdor, many of us are eager to blame the misfortunes of our crops on those who are not like us. Especially on those who can not defend themselves. Believe me, I have done my fair share of placing blame. But I have seen the light of God and he tells me to love my neighbor, even when they betray me. It’s true, my child is different. Different enough to single out. But he is not evil. I ask again, why do you want him?”

The second soldier smirked, surprised by Adhan’s gift of prose and by her boldness. 

“Only the king can tell his reasons,” the first soldier said calmly. “And he will sooner be defeated, than come to such a lowly place.”

The second soldier was inspecting the floor, and grumbled, “I grow tired of this prattle. Does he or does he not possess extraordinary abilities?”

“He is young,” Adhan declared. “I know not yet all that he can or cannot do. I would like to keep him long enough to find out.”

“All the same. He fits the bill. No father, unholy, puts curses on people. This is exactly the sort of child we were sent to find. His Lordship will be pleased to receive him.”

“I can assure you he will be of no use-”

“His sorcery is not what the King would have him for-”

“King Vortigern the Usurper?” Merlin asked. All eyes turned to him as the room fell silent.

★

King Vortigern laughed on his throne.

“You are bold,” He exclaimed. “And do you have a name, child?”

“Not one I’d care to tell you,” Merlin answered.

“Pity. I thought I should know what to mark on your grave. So that I could honor your indispensable service, unwillful as it may be. It is with great regret, and a very heavy heart, that I must inform you of the necessity of your death. You see, young demon, I am trying to erect a tower, but the tower will not stand. It has been revealed to me by my very wise men, who are well versed in the ways of you inhumans, that this great and noble deed demands a sacrifice. I shall spare you the gory details only because you appear to me now as a meek, unwitting babe, although in truth I know not of the gorish deeds to which you are accustomed. Still, I show you the mercy which is expected of me. In short, short one, your blood is to be sprinkled upon the foundation of my tower, in order to render it more firm.”

“Nonsense.”

One of Vortigern’s wise men, a short man in long robes, with long graying hair, stepped forward. 

“Sire-”

Merlin turned to him, with that same scrutinizing glare. 

“Wizard. What sleeps beneath the foundation which prevents it from standing firm?”

“He was not addressing you, vermin,” spit the other wise man, taller with dark hair and dark, cunning eyes. 

Merlin, though young, noticed the lack of malice in his voice. Perhaps because he had heard so much malice in the voices of the other villagers, when they addressed his mother to complain about poor yields, or any other bad luck they’d encountered. 

Or perhaps it was because he was young. Children, with their uncluttered minds, pick up on things that most grown people overlook, like the tone of one’s voice, or the look in his eye as he speaks. There was a carefulness in this so-called wise man’s voice, which he was trying to let show without revealing it entirely.

“But you both must answer to me,” Vortigern commanded. “Go on. I will not be made a fool.” 

Merlin’s eyes glowed yellow. The king and his wise men held their breath. The knights readied their swords, but Vortigern stopped them with a wave of his hand.  
“Call your workmen,” Merlin instructed. “And order them to rip the foundation up. You will find a pool beneath it. Oh wise ones, tell your king what he will find inside the pool.”  
The short wizard cried out, “He is a trickster, my lord.”

“They are the tricksters. They tricked you into thinking them wise, when they know nothing.”

His eyes glowed again.

“In the pool, you will find two hollow stones and two sleeping dragons inside. One white and one red. Bring me to them, and they will show me your future. Murder me, and you will never know.”

★

They all stood at the foundation of the unfinished tower. Two soldiers, two wizards, Vortigern, Merlin, and a handful of workmen, who undid the work they’d struggled to complete.  
And there were the two dragons, white and red, rudely awakened by the white light of the cloudy sky. Without hesitation, the white one lunged at the red one’s throat.

“I cannot believe it. All which this creature has said has come to pass. You two ought to learn from him,” Vortigern said, turning to the wise men. “Or find yourselves replaced.”

He looked down at Merlin. “There may well be a space for you in Camelot.”

“I would not serve you ever long, for your tyranny will be short lived.”

“How can you know this? You said that the dragons could tell my future. How?”

“They act out the future. See how they wrestle in the pool - how the white one oppresses the red one? He represents the Saxons who you have made your friends, who now oppress the Britons. But just as we, unexpected, have intervened in their battle, so an intervention comes.”

“What intervention?”

“Perhaps I will understand more after a night’s rest. And I will only tell you if you promise you’ll return me to my mother.”

“I will swear, if you will give me a name to swear it to.”

Merlin did not think, he only opened up his mind and received, as children often do when their parents are not there to block them from the whole unruly world and keep them closed to it. And Merlin latched onto the name which ate at Vortigern’s wicked heart, knowing that it would frighten him to hear it said out loud. And so he said it, for no other reason, but that he felt he should.

“Swear to Ambrose.”

That night, in the cot the king’s servants had prepared for him, Merlin had a very silly dream, in which a boar from Cornwall rose up, noble as a boar could rise, and dueled the white dragon - and won. It even celebrated its victory by rudely trampling on the dragon’s neck. Then it rode off into the sunset on the red dragon’s back, and together they dueled all of their foes. In truth, Merlin did not know what to make of this - and could not think of anything which might please Vortigern to hear. 

But somehow he knew, perhaps in the way children always do, perhaps in a way only he could, that he did not need to worry, for King Vortigern would not uphold his end of the deal - and not just for the usual reason of being an honorless double crosser. Even as Vortigern sharpened his sword well into the night, in anticipation of an execution, it did not matter. Merlin knew, his time on the throne was at its end, and the time of the boar was only just beginning. 

Still, in the tradition of kings who happen to be human men, Vortigern pretended to be ignorant of the fate which he deserved, even as he prepared the slaughter of a child, guilty only of knowing  
the name of his greatest enemy. 

He sharpened his sword, for a reason he could not admit to himself, but which had made a puppet out of him for longer than he knew. 

He was afraid.

★

“Is there a reason that I hear a girl’s voice when I read your writing?” William asked, looking over Merlin’s shoulder as he scribbled. He leaned against the little wooden desk, beneath Merlin’s little window, from which the afternoon light was currently retreating.

“‘William asks smugly,” Merlin read aloud as he wrote. “‘Merlin retorts, ‘You must think my voice is very pretty then,’ as he writes out his final sentence.’”

Merlin dropped his pen, whisking off his spectacles. Then, he closed his book, kissing the tan leather cover passionately and holding it out for William to behold. 

“Behold! It’s finally finished!” As he thrust his book into William’s face, the sleeves of his tunic hung loosely from his tiny wrists, and slid down to reveal his forearms, which were, William noticed, finally starting to show some muscle.

Merlin had always been small for his age. Tall, but slim and delicate. Growing up, his mother made a habit of sewing his clothes too big, so that she wouldn’t have to waste time or fabric on new garments, when she could just wait for him to grow into the old ones. 

Well, grow he did, but mostly upwards.

Now, a few weeks from his 21st birthday, he was still waiting to fill his clothing. 

William squinted to read the cover. “‘Hist’ry Up Til Now…’”

“This very moment!”

“What about the rest? Like us talking right now - you won’t record that?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll document all this sometime later. I’m in no hurry!”

“Wasn’t it you who said history waits for no man? I should think it wouldn’t wait for you either, Merlin.”

“You forget, William. I am no man.”

“Right, I forgot. You are a woman.”

Merlin rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know why you waste time on all this. History. Prophecies.” 

William held up a large book which had been sitting on the floor near the bed, titled, “Camelot: Past, Present, and Future.” He started leafing through it, absentmindedly. 

“Because it’s important.”

“Yeah? For who?”

Merlin stood.

“It just is, William. For us. For the future.” Next to his desk there was a tall stack of haphazardly placed journals, all leather-bound. Merlin straightened the stack, then placed his new book on top. He turned to William, who sat down on the short, hay-stuffed bed, with the Camelot book open in his lap. “Books like mine should be in a king’s library. And I’d be in his ear.”

William gave him a funny look. “You mean to go inside his ear? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you shrink, Merlin, but then again you do get up to a lot of non-”

“You know what I mean, you dick. I’m meant to be out there! I’m meant to mold the minds of kings, to shepherd in the new age-”

“To go on and on and on ad infinitum-”

“I can only do what I was born to do.”

“Then why are you here right now, and not there?”

“I don’t know. But I shouldn’t be for long. I can’t survive here.”

“But you can if you keep yourself hidden. If you grow some sense and quit this magic thing. Or keep doing it, if you insist. But instead of running off to far off lands pursuing a destiny you aren’t even sure of, you could live a life, here in Essetir. Here in Ealdor even. Make things better here, for your people”. 

“My people? I don’t know many here who would call me theirs. Other than you of course…” William softened. It was true, he was Merlin’s only friend. The only person in the village besides his mother, who neither feared nor hated him, Merlin was sure. None of the others knew his kindness, his sense of humor or charm, because he had become so afraid of putting himself out there. And now, he had a reputation for being secretive, which surely meant he was up to no good. He sighed. There was no winning here. No matter what, he would be judged. And with judgement comes the inevitable sentencing. What would it be for him, he often wondered. Would he be drowned, burned, or simply chased into the wilderness, where he would either live as a hermit, or die from some natural cause. Knowing his luck, he’d probably meet his end by the claws of some random beast. 

He looked back at William, only then realizing that he had ever looked away. William was already staring at him - had always been staring at him.

“Anyways,” he began, shaking his head. “I can’t quit what I am, Will. I can’t survive like that.”

“I know,” Will said, looking away.

This was an argument they’d had many times, and Will was growing tired of it. Tired of the way his chest tightened, and his heart pounded, and this red burning thing inside him rose up to his throat and made his tongue heavy, as he tried to convince his best friend not to leave him. 

Will was not like Merlin. He had other people, people he could talk to who would talk to him too. Girls who flirted, some guys too. They all meant something to him; they were his village, his family, but Merlin meant the world. William felt, sometimes, like he’d have enough, if he could just have Ealdor and Merlin.

But for Merlin, it was becoming increasingly clear, William would never be enough.

For the past year, Merlin had been accosting him nonstop with different plots to get himself to Camelot. There was no need to ask “why Camelot,” though if he did ask, Merlin would answer that he had visited there as a child, and would simply like to return. Of course, everyone in the village knew that it had not been a mere visit, but a summons. 

And of course William knew, Camelot was the home of Merlin’s father, and he believed that he might find him there. This, Merlin would never say out loud, but it was easy to infer from knowing him. Merlin was lonely and, though he loved his mother very much, spoke sometimes of the distance that his magic put between them. And her fear, no longer that he had some evil in him - that fear faded shortly after his birth - but that he might be driven to it. By the harshness of the world, and by the fact of his isolation in Ealdor, where magic was treated like a crime without actually being one. He hoped his father, being some sort of magical entity, would be able to prevent that from happening. That was on the condition that he was not evil himself, and that he was still alive, but of course Merlin would never know until he met him, or found his resting place. 

So, he had to go, and was restless for it. 

The fact that Camelot was rumoured to have strict laws against sorcery, due to King Uther’s long attempted “War Against Magic,” did not seem to concern Merlin, much to his friend’s dismay.

Most of his plans were stupid, required William’s help, and would probably never ever work. They all involved hitching rides with smugglers, merchants, or missionaries. Once, Merlin considered stealing a horse, but couldn’t think of anyone he hated enough to rob. There were people he disliked, who probably hated him to no end, but perhaps Adhan’s rearing had made him too kind. Cruelty was not foreign to him, and he could be quite scathing with his words when he felt it was deserved, but the thought of hurting anyone in any lasting way left a nasty taste in his mouth. He just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t even want to. 

Then came the news, via some visiting merchants, that Camelot was searching for talent. There had been no official court jester since two kings ago, and Uther was becoming desperate for some good press. His kingdom was respected - for its military prowess, its mystical Prince Arthur, and its infamous war - but it was hardly well liked. He thought, it seemed, that a remarkable court jester would make for a more remarkable kingdom.

Merlin was a fool, so he thought he might be a worthy candidate. Or at least, he could visit Uther’s court on such a pretense. He could read and write, and tell a good story when provoked. He supposed he could sing as well as anybody else, though his voice was far from exceptional, and he could only play one song on the psaltery (which a handsome itinerant bard had kindly demonstrated for him). He was not prone to any profound feats of physical mastery, but he discovered that he was a good enough dancer, when music was playing. And he had taught himself to juggle, until he was very impressive at it, so that he could at least call himself an expert in something. 

There was still the problem of getting himself there, which he’d found no real solution for, except the aforementioned hitchhiking.

The morning after his argument with Will, Merlin was awoken by a knock at his bedroom wall. In an instant, William shot up from under the thin blankets, which would have been inadequate protection from the biting Autumn air, had there been only one body underneath to try warm itself. Thankfully for the blanket, there were two. 

Merlin opened his eyes, just as William was forcing his tunic over his head. Once his head was free, he leaned over and planted a sloppy kiss on Merlin’s cheek, and Merlin, sleepy and annoyed, swatted him away. 

“Merlin, may I come in?” Adhan called. She was being suspiciously courteous, Merlin immediately noted.

“Bye,” Will whispered, noticing it too, and hoisted himself out the window. 

Merlin sat up, pulling his pants on underneath his blanket. When he was younger, he and Adhan shared this tiny room. There was only one other, slightly bigger one, where Adhan cooked and held her daily lessons. It was her ambition to educate the children of Ealdor, and there were a handful of parents who liked Adhan, and did not entirely blame her for giving birth to Merlin, and as a result allowed her to care for their children. They reasoned that if she could keep him good, she could certainly do the same for them.

It was in that room, where the children learned to read and write, that Adhan also slept, to escape Merlin’s erratic sleeping. 

That freed up the necessary space and privacy for William to occasionally pretend to fall asleep there, as if entirely by accident, too tired to make his way to his own hut. He would stay just late enough into the night to start yawning and appearing droopy eyed, so that Merlin would put out the candles, no longer bothering to ask William if he would sleep there, but simply laying down beside him.

That was how they ended up together that morning, as they had many mornings before.

“Yes?” Merlin called, once William was safely out of sight.

Adhan stepped through the beaded curtain, which Merlin had hung up for a door. She had her hands behind her back and was studying Merlin intensely, as a painter studies her subject, committing his features to memory so that she might reproduce him later. 

She held up the letter which she had been concealing.

“It is arranged,” she announced. “Ever since you turned 21, I have been in correspondence with an old friend of mine, who lives in Camelot -”

At the mention of Camelot, Merlin opened his mouth. Adhan raised her hand to silence him.

“Let me finish - His name is Gaius. He is King Uther’s court physician. It was he who aided me in my pregnancy when no one else would, he who helped me escape the convent, and he who helped to deliver you into this world. I trusted him with your life once. He knows only that you were born from magic, but not of your power - I could not risk writing it down, where it could be used as evidence against you - but he will give you shelter and work. And better guidance than what I am capable of, on how to tame and utilize your gifts. That is more than would be promised were you to venture there with no real allies, as I have feared you might do, if such an opportunity as this did not present itself. I know there is no other place you wish to be but Camelot. Although I do not know exactly why, I know that I can no longer deny you that. No one can. I only want to see you become the man that you are meant to be. So I can not watch you be a miserable one, Merlin. You are to leave by week’s end. You’ll give him this letter, as proof of your identity, and containing a message of my gratitude.”

It broke her heart. Though she tried to hide it in her posture and the calmness of her voice, it was through no magic greater than compassion that Merlin could sense its aching. It made his heart, which was kind of soaring, a little tender too.

“I… I don’t know what to say, mother. Thank you.”

“Say you’ll keep yourself safe, keep your head down, and use it to think before you act. For my sake.”

“I will try.”

“No try. You must, or neither of us will survive. For if you lose your head, so will my heart be lost, Merlin. I’m sure Will has not strayed too far by now. You’ll want to speak with him.”

Will had not strayed far at all. In fact, he was just outside, sitting underneath Merlin’s window. He had been waiting there for Adhan to leave, at which point he would stroll over to the front door, and politely ask to be let in, as he had many mornings before.

Merlin jumped out of bed, rushing to the window. 

He got there just in time to see Will, stalking off.

The end of the week came in a hurry, eager to bring Merlin to his new home. With his letter, Gaius had also sent Merlin enough money to go out of town and pay his way onto a cart. 

So with that, and a large backpack, he left home. His mother made sure to prolong their farewells, touching his face, kissing his cheeks, and reminding him, more than once, not to do anything naughty while he was away.

And then he was away, walking down the dirt path that led straight out of Ealdor. He did not spare any glances towards the townspeople, who had wanted him gone for some time, and whose eyes he could feel on his back as he walked. And there were no more goodbyes to be said, except for William, who had been avoiding Merlin all week long. It was a difficult task, considering how small their village was, and thus proved his devotion to it. 

Yet, as Merlin passed the last little hut, there he was, leaning against the crumbling stone wall that guarded Ealdor from the outside world, for no apparent reason, but that he was waiting for Merlin to pass. For all their lives, that wall had served little purpose, except for being a place away from prying eyes, when the huts were too stifling, where young people could sit and climb and jump.

Now Merlin would pass it, for the second time in his life - or the third, depending on whether you believe life starts before or after conception.

As he got closer, and William got done pretending to be looking at anything other than him, Merlin spoke.

“I could’ve said goodbye sooner, if you weren’t avoiding me.”

“I’m sure you could’ve. But I’ve been busy. I have a life outside of you.”

Busy doing what - farming?, Merlin stopped himself from asking. Instead he said, “Listen, I really am sorry. I don’t really want to leave. Not so soon at least. I’ve made no preparation for my books. But my mother - she’s -”

“Stop. I know you too well. Just don’t get yourself killed.”

“William, I’ll be back.”

“I don’t think you will.”

“You don’t know that. I will come back. I’ll visit you as soon as I’ve got myself situated.”

“Yeah?” William nodded. “Alright, Merlin.”

Merlin came close, preparing to kiss him. But William stopped him with a hand on his arm, and gave him that stare. That same hard stare he always had, that beat Merlin senseless, though it was meant to do the opposite.

“Spare me,” Will warned. “You may be able to get away with all sorts here, but the activities you find most pleasurable will see you hanged in Camelot. Take care, my friend.”  
Merlin had no choice to return the stare, though it made his stomach turn. 

“I will,” he promised.


	2. Episode 2: Lancelot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter we meet young Uther, Arthur's uncle, and Lancelot!!!

“Ambrose, dear child,” Vortigern began. The early morning light streamed in through the vast windows, covering the whole throne room in calm pale blue. 

“I thought you might pay me a visit,” Vortigern purred.

Ambrose, who was less a child than a man, struggled to keep his composure, gripping his sword more tightly in his fist, and causing every knight in the room to do the same. There were many of them, surrounding Ambrose and Uther at every angle, and cutting off all chances of escape. Ambrose glanced at his younger brother, who was making no effort to conceal his rage, and looked ready to lunge at Vortigern’s throat.

“It was you, wasn’t it, who sent this demon spawn to plague me? No matter, he gave me ample warning of your arrival. Time enough, to arrange for the hanging of your spy. He will be dead before the sun sets.”

Ambrose barely spared a glance at the child towards whom Vortigern had gestured. He knew nothing of this young boy, overwhelmed by chains, with a knight gripping either or his arms - and he wished to know nothing further. Whoever or whatever he was would have to wait until after Vortigern’s death to be addressed.

“I do not consort with demons, Vortigern,” Ambrose declared. “Hell is your territory, not mine, but I will send you back to it soon enough.”

Vortigern smirked. “Hell is an invention of mortal minds, boy. I believe in survival of the fittest, and I blame my actions on none other than myself. But I am not surprised that you, in your endless search for righteousness, would attribute your own self interest to the interests of a false God, if only to make your actions seem more godly. The divine right of kings, Ambrosius Aurelius, is nothing but a bedtime story. And you, a child. Dust, under the foot of greater men. Be as your eldest brother, Constans was. Lay down and be trod upon.”

Uther brandished his sword.

“Speak not of our brother, villain. Or I swear I will cut out your tongue.” Uther took a step towards Vortigern, and the whole room took one towards him. 

“Relax, Uther,” Ambrose warned, turning his attention back to the usurper. “If I am dust, so are you. I suspect, even as you sully our home with demons and Saxons, that you have retained your mortality. Prove to me, then, that you are still a man, and fight me like one. And let the fitter man between us claim his prize.”

Vortigern smiled, a cruel, ill-fitting smile.

“Uther Pendragon. What have you to say on the matter? I thought by now you would’ve ventured out from underneath your elder brother’s shadow. I suppose not.

“I stand at his side,” Uther insisted.

“Oh, at his side? Then you will not fight for your right to the throne?”

“I fight for the love of God. And for the love of His chosen king.”

“And I will not. While the two of you may have the advantage in youth and vigor, I surpass you in intelligence. The right to rule has nothing to do with physical domination, it has only to do with the fact of dominance. This is my domain, and has been since the days of your pliant brother.”  
With a wave of his hand, he summoned his guards. At once, a horde of them rushed towards Uther and Ambrose. Though hopeless, Ambrose adopted a defensive stance. Meanwhile Uther charged at Vortigern, just barely evading the offending knights.

“Uther!” Ambrose begged, as the knights began to overwhelm him. But Uther had Vortigern in his sights, and could stop for nothing, not even his own brother’s pleas. He pushed off the last of the guards who hoped to stop him, as Vortigern stood, realizing finally that he could neither flee, nor rely on his men. Vortigern pulled his sword from its ornate scabbard, though he knew he would not win. He would rather die than surrender.

The resulting duel was quick. It ended with Uther’s sword plunged deep into Vortigern’s chest. 

Behind him, he could hear his brother call out for him, “Uther! Please!” But he could not be moved. He took his time, thoughtfully retrieving his sword from Vortigern’s ribcage, and watching the life slowly leave his eyes. He thought not of his older brother, who might have been dying; nor did he really think of Constans. He didn’t even think of God, although they were the three he’d always sworn himself to out loud. He thought only of Vortigern’s words, and bowed to them.

There is only the fact of dominance. 

He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts, he barely heard the sound of bodies slamming pitifully against the walls. Finally, he turned, expecting to see his brother slain where he once stood. Instead he saw the guards, lifeless, slumped against the walls. Ambrose lay on the ground, badly beaten but not dead, staring in shock at the young boy who was once in chains.

Merlin lowered his hand, and Ambrose Aurelius was king. 

★

“Normally I would not say this,” Ambrose said, as he and Uther walked the darkened halls of their castle. “But thank God for disloyal knights. The number of men who have denounced Vortigern and pledged themselves to me - If only all of them could be so traitorous, there would be more room in our dungeons for the Saxons we will soon have to imprison.”

They had spent the whole day reclaiming their kingdom, starting with the knights. From the dungeons they rescued the men whom Vortigern had not executed, though they were slightly weakened by the time they’d spent imprisoned. Ambrose was delighted to see how many of his old friends survived, and most importantly, how many would support him in driving out the Saxons from his land. Replacing them in their cells were the knights who vowed to avenge Vortigern, most of which had been supporting him since long before he declared himself king. They forced the remaining knights to denounce him, and kneel before Ambrose, which they did without much protest.

Uther was a few paces in front of him, still propelled by the adrenaline that comes with having committed regicide. He spoke with great urgency.

“Hear me, Ambrose.” Ambrose, who heard him, rolled his eyes. “Any knight who would desert his king once would do it again. Many of the men who swear themselves to you now are the same ones who swore themselves to Vortigern after he killed our brother. It would be wise to throw them all in the dungeon. Better that than your army, to be overflowing with unworthy men.”

Ambrose stopped walking, and spoke in a serious tone. “It would be wiser, brother, not to question your king.”

Uther turned to face him. He forced his mouth closed and waited for Ambrose to continue.

Ambrose caught up to him as he spoke. “We can debate about our soldiers’ loyalties when we are no longer at war, and in dire need of soldiers.” He clapped Uther on the shoulder, and started walking again, this time taking the lead. 

Uther followed close behind, until he was directly beside him.

“Now, what are we to do about this boy? He will not answer any of our questions. I suspect he might be mute.”

“I suspect he might be dangerous-” 

“I will not kill a child, Uther.”

“But you should, when the child is not what he seems. Do not let yourself be enchanted by his adoration. Vortigern’s more loyal knights have whispered in their cells. They say he is demon born. You know what his kind are capable of. His magic may already have a hold-”

“That is a myth.”

“What is a myth? In a world such as this? That creatures exist that can taint the minds of even the greatest men? Put the question of his lineage from your mind, and focus on the truth of the matter. He possesses a great power. We cannot take our chances.”

“The Saxons have magic on their side, perhaps we should as well. More than just Gaius and Wyllt. A healer and a philosopher are excellent in times of peace, but a bit rubbish in battle. And I have never seen either of them do anything like what that boy has done today. He could be useful.”

“Ambrose, you and I both know you would not risk his life to make good use of him. I sometimes fear your generous heart-”

Ambrose stopped walking again. “He saved me, Uther,” and you did not. Those were the unspoken words which both men could hear, but never would address. “He does not deserve to die. The least I can do is return him to his home.”

“Brother, I may not have Wyllt’s gifts, but I predict that the child will one day return to Camelot, with more power than what he has already displayed. You may find the killing of a guilty man to be an easier undertaking than that of an innocent child, but you weigh not the many innocent lives which he may take as he grows older. And you willfully ignore, that he will not grow to be a man. Even if he grows to your same height, even if he equals you in size and stature, he may well prove to be much more than your equal in a fight. I can only hope that you will still be capable of doing what needs to be done, when that day comes.”

“If that day comes, then I, having never killed a child, shall face it with conscience clear. And with God’s love shining down on me. Maybe he will thank me for sparing his life. Maybe he will bless the land which let him live.”

“Will God reward you for showing mercy to his enemy?”

“Does he not reward mercy?”

“Like he rewarded our brother?”

Ambrose frowned.

“I will send the boy home. Or at the very least, somewhere safe. And far away.”

★

It had been nearly fortnight, and Merlin felt far from settled. First of all, the journey to Camelot was horrendous. It had gone as smoothly as he’d expected on the first day, which is to say that the carriage he rode on broke down by the sixth hour of travel; and the driver - who by the sounds of his grumbling was used to such misfortune - blamed the muddy path, the horses, and Merlin. Innocent Merlin, whose only options now would be to stay with the rude old man and wait for help (or criminals), or to ask for his money back and try walking to the nearest town. Though the road was less a road than it was a vague suggestion, it seemed to be the least unpleasant route. 

So, up he went to the fuming driver and requested his money back. Or, he added once he saw the look on his face, at least a portion of it. The driver responded with a lot of cursing and flailing his arms, saying that Merlin, being the only reason he had traveled at all, and now intending to leave him stranded with his carriage and horses, vulnerable to any sort of criminal offence, ought to leave him with some sort of compensation for his troubles. Merlin thought this answer would have been warranted, had it not been for the fact that the driver would have inevitably picked up some other person, traveled in some other direction, and had his carriage break down somewhere else. Therefore, Merlin said, he would have ended up in the same situation, with or without Merlin’s help, and maybe he should’ve been doing a better job looking after the maintenance of his wheels and whatnot, before letting desperate travelers place their trust in him. And now that Merlin thought of it, how could he trust this man at all? How could he be sure that this whole breaking down episode was not just some scheme, so he would only have to travel part of the way, while pocketing all of the money?

At this, the driver promptly chased him off, though he did not have to do much chasing at all. He simply gave Merlin that look, that one he had seen in the faces of starved dogs whilst they ate, which told Merlin that he’d better get as far away as possible, quickly. The driver did that, and a bit of a forward movement, as if he would run after him. In truth, his knees were much too stiff for all that, and the road far too muddy.

Merlin discovered this as he ran away, and slipped a few times as a result. His entire backside was covered in mud by the time he found the handsome, gloriously coiffed man on horseback, who identified himself as Lancelot, and graciously let Merlin ride with him despite his dirtiness. 

“It is the honorable thing to do,” he’d explained to Merlin, who could hardly believe his kindness, but knew not to question it too much, lest his questioning lead him to some unfavourable answer.

While they rode, and Merlin tried not to hold on to Lancelot too tightly (he was very handsome), he realized that the circumstances of their meeting seemed unusual. He didn’t really know what it was like to travel on his own, so he couldn’t tell if it was actually normal to be rescued by beautiful men on white horses, within only the first hour of one’s distress. When he first stumbled upon Lancelot, the man had just emerged from between two trees, looking dazzling in a white tunic. Merlin wondered for a moment if he was a woodland fairy, or some sort of apparition.

The clouds parted, and a wide and golden lightbeam landed exactly in the space where he was standing, so that his skin - also golden - glowed brighter just as he walked through. 

Then he noticed Merlin, and waved at him. As if compelled, Merlin went to him at once, convinced now that he was in fact a fairy, seducing him to his doom.

But as they talked, he became less convinced. Lancelot did not seem to be any sort of mystical being - otherwise, the writers in Merlin’s books had never met one. Though he was beautiful and suspiciously kind, he revealed himself to be full of human insecurities, stumbling here and there as he spoke, nervous and unsure like any man. Like Merlin. 

Still, it was all too good to be true. All too coincidental and convenient. When Merlin asked what had brought Lancelot to that wood, he answered that he too was on his way to Camelot, but that his horse got turned around somehow. He was looking for the road, he said, when he found Merlin.

“Where are you coming from?” Merlin asked.

“Uh...Many places,” was his vague reply. “I’ve been wandering for a long time, wanting to reach Camelot, but always being diverted somehow. For that reason, it has been a frustrating journey, but maybe that’s why I met you, to put me back on my path.”

Merlin was behind him, so he could not give him the long, meaningful look that his words required. But he looked over his shoulder briefly and smiled, and Merlin felt overwhelmingly seen.

“What about you? Where are you from?” Lancelot asked. 

If it were anyone else, who had answered that same question in as evasive a way as Lancelot had, Merlin would have declined to answer, or been similarly vague. But it was Lancelot, Merlin thought, as if he knew what Lancelot was.

“Ealdor.”

“Oh that’s not so far. That’s what, half a day’s ride from here?”

“A lifetime when you haven’t got a horse.”

Lancelot laughed a little. It was a beautiful sound, and once it was over Merlin realized that the wind was rushing through the trees, and that it sounded almost the same. 

When they got to the topic of why Merlin had left, and what he hoped to find in Camelot, he took a deep breath and tried to answer as honestly as he could. In Ealdor, he didn’t have to lie about his abilities, as much as he had to keep quiet about them. Everyone more or less knew, had already witnessed him doing or saying unexplainable things, or heard stories from people who had. But most of them decided it was necessary, when there was work to be done and an oncoming winter to survive, to just stop talking about it so much. At least, not out in the open, and in no explicit terms.

“I just realized there wasn’t really anything for me there. Not anything I wanted.”

“I understand that well. You might think I’m silly to be saying this, but-” He paused. “But I want nothing more than to go to Camelot, and be made a knight, and maybe, one day fight alongside Prince Arthur.” By the sound of his voice, which was shaking a bit, Merlin could tell it was the first time he had ever said this out loud. That, or he had said it before, and been laughed at.

“That isn’t so silly, Lancelot. But, well, why go to Camelot of all places? Why not be a knight somewhere else? Not that I don’t want you to take me there. It’s just, you could go anywhere couldn’t you?” Merlin hoped he would not say it was because he believed in their current cause, which, if you’ve somehow forgotten, was to purge all magic from the land of Albion. If that turned out to be Lancelot’s answer, it would mean Merlin would have to start his hiding long before he even arrived in Camelot. The mere concept of putting on a mask disappointed him more than he’d imagined it would, after he’d already torn one off, at the wall with Will. And he didn’t even realize he’d been free of it until much later, until he was asking that carriage driver for a ride, handing him money, making conversation. Of course, he’d prepared himself for this, but nevertheless hoped, Not now. Not with this wonderful man.

“Why, indeed,” Lancelot answered, and then went quiet. 

By the time he spoke again, the sun was nearly gone. The sky was a vibrant pink, and his cheeks a matching shade.

“There is a code they live by.”

“Hm?” Merlin, who had grown tired, murmured into his Lancelot’s shoulder.

“Many of the knights of Camelot. I know that they have lost their way in recent years, pursuing this magic war, but some of them. They live by a code, and swear to uphold it. They are the best of the best. And if I am to join them, I must go before Prince Arthur himself, and prove my worth. Only he can judge me, for he is the most chivalrous of them all.”

He was nothing of the sort, Merlin later discovered, almost the instant that he set foot in Camelot. Upon meeting Arthur, and soon after learning it was him, he immediately wondered what Lancelot’s sources were, if this vision of Arthur he had painted for Merlin was nothing more than a fantasy, and whether or not Lancelot was even sane, to have invented a version so far from the truth.

But, that would be later, and this was now. And now, he was beginning to find himself swept up in Lancelot’s dreaming. It enveloped him like a wind, and suddenly the promise of Prince Arthur surrounded him. He could see his face, molded from Lancelot’s characterization. Fair hair, blue eyes, all radiant. He would do something amazing, like hold out his hand and pull Merlin up if he fell, then introduce himself. Without assuming, he’d ask Merlin questions about what he was like, as if he were a man, and not a creature. 

That was the dream that really took him that night. The dream, that he could be a man in Camelot, and not a creature.

On the second day of travel, they were attacked by a griffin. There, Merlin accidentally and spectacularly revealed his magic to Lancelot, who took it very well. 

Really it could not have been avoided - Lancelot had done a good job at running and stabbing with his sword, but then he found himself pinned down by the miserable thing, and most surely would have died a moment later. Meaning to do one last honorable act, he looked over at Merlin. He was about to command Merlin to take his horse and flee, while the griffin was distracted by the prospect of killing him, but was halted by the sight before him. Merlin’s eyes glowed a brilliant gold, much like the sunlight. He pushed his hand forward, and in an instant the griffin was propelled into a tree. While it lay stunned against the trunk, Merlin grabbed Lancelot up, and the two of them stumbled to safety. Lancelot thanked him profusely for saving him, which both warmed and terrified Merlin. More than anything, he was extremely embarrassed to have failed so early on in concealing himself. If he could not make it one day here, in some woods with one trusting man, how could he even hope to last in Camelot?

“Relax,” Lancelot said, in the incredibly earnest way he said most things. “You’re not the first sorcerer I’ve ever met. But to go to Camelot - why are you going to Camelot?”

“I have to.”

Merlin thought of his father. If Prince Arthur was blowing like the wind, carrying him forward, his father’s unknowable face was a heavy, amorphous fog, swirling at his feet, blocking out the world before him. He knew that he would have to travel through it blindly, or be lost.

“There are just,” he began, struggling. “So many things there I have to do.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t entirely know yet. But that’s sort of the wonderful thing about it. It’s just a knowledge that I have. A force, pulling me.”

“Is this like, a matter of destiny, or something of that nature? 

“I suppose it is.”

"Well then, I know that feeling all too well. I too am drawn to Camelot for purposes beyond my comprehension. I’m glad to have found someone who understands.” He clasped Merlin by the hand, and gave it a hearty shake.

Merlin, unaware of the movements of his face, was beaming with every aspect of himself. Maybe if he were lucky, there would be more people like Lancelot waiting for him in Camelot, who could make him feel so needed, and so real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these chapters have been so short. I feel like they're not really episodes as of yet, but I'm probably gonna do some revising/beefing up later on. And sorry for the lack of Arthur. He'll be here soon, along with Gwen and Morgana, and...Nimueh ;)


	3. Episode 3: Gwendydd - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping it brief today: 
> 
> Merlin learns a glamour, The Lady Viviane visits from Northumbria, Lancelot struggles to fit in with the knights, and there is a ball to attend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm technically not done with this part, but it's been so long since I posted any updates so I wanted to at least give you this. Life has been chaotic, folks.
> 
> I did skip over most of the events of Episode 1 (when Arthur and Merlin meet), mainly because I had no desire to write them. I don't imagine things unfolding much differently from how they did in that episode, so it would just be a lot of the same stuff you've already seen. If you wanted to see it again, please forgive me. I'll get around to it eventually.
> 
> No flashback for this one either - I'll make up for it in the next chapter!

Arthur was eighteen, and a menace, and he loved being both. It helped that he was also a prince, so of course his menacing could be neither acknowledged nor opposed by anyone - with two glaring exceptions. His father didn’t care who Arthur harassed as long as it wasn’t anyone important, like himself or The Lady Morgana. Both would make their opposition very known, and very hurtful, but his father’s brand of hurt was undeniably worse. Unlike Morgana’s, it did not resort to petty insults, humiliation, or beatings, but instead relied on the much more effective sting of apathy. Indeed, it was apathy which Arthur feared more than death - though it was disastrous for the obvious reasons, it could at least be done honorably. There was no honor to be found at all in being ignored.

So mainly Arthur menaced the castle’s many servants, when he was in the mood for it, and mainly felt compelled to do it in the company of knights, who were the best audience for that sort of thing. And of course, none of them would ever dare to question him.

That was, until Merlin came to court. 

In the few weeks since he’d arrived, Merlin had bumbled his way into the very important, very lucrative position of being Arthur’s personal attendant. It was a privilege which should have been reserved for only the most skilled, discreet, and respectful servant; and Merlin was none of those things.

Arthur told himself that, though he did not agree with the decision, he understood his father’s motives, and found them to be quite wise. It was advantageous to publicly reward an act of loyalty to the crown, especially when the actor is of a very low social class. And to make the reward the promise of upward mobility, by giving him a position in the royal household - this gives the common people something to aspire to, and tells them that devotion is the way to get it. 

Merlin was fortunate enough to have saved Arthur’s life, so Arthur supposed he’d have to appear lenient, while he tried to train some obedience into him - or else be thought of as a brute. That would have been okay with him, if he were not already being a menace. He understood from his father’s teachings that to be one or the other was an acceptable (and even favorable) quality in a king, but to be both at once would guarantee his execution within only the first year of his reign. History proved that the people of Camelot could stand for menaces, and they could stand for brutes, but never ever both at once.

That was the risk of being royal. It was something he’d had to accept at a young age, that death was always just around the corner, and in every other direction one might turn. So his greatest aspiration in life was not to be the greatest king he could be, but to survive long enough to become a king at all. Of course he would have liked to be great as well, but he knew not to set his hopes too high, nor expect from himself what he could not deliver. 

At least he was handsome, and could fulfill Uther’s desire for a grandson. It seemed that reproduction was the area where Arthur could be of most use to his father, nevermind his natural leadership qualities, or his talent with a sword.

He supposed, after that initial incidental saving, that if Merlin was to be good for one thing, it was probably that he might, by virtue of his nearness, act as a buffer between Arthur and an oncoming arrow. At least, this was certainly his father’s point of view.

But of course Arthur would never allow it. It wasn’t his style to run from danger, and let some servant, not even trained to defend himself, accidentally die in his stead. He would rather fight his opponent to the death and lose with dignity than let Merlin throw his life away in some ignoble fashion. And, knowing Merlin, it would certainly be ignoble - firstly, because he had proven himself to be a hopeless clutz. And secondly, because he seemed not to care a whit about his duty to the crown, and as a result, would probably not die for loyalty, but out of pure bad luck.

But he was fun to torment, which meant he was, indeed, good for one thing. 

He was also snarky, and argumentative. He was almost as bad as Morgana, except that most verbal sparring with her would quickly devolve into physical sparring; and that would quickly end in her fake tears (or his real ones) and a bored, yet devastating scolding from his father. Once he grew too old to carry on fighting her, he discovered that he was unused to resolving things with just his words, and could rarely get the last one in any argument between them. But there were many things he could do with Merlin that he could not with Morgana, like ordering him to muck out the stalls, or - when he was being especially disobedient - putting him in a headlock.

Of course, he had done all of that with all of his previous servants, but it was rarely ever satisfying. Most of them would just accept everything he told them to do, and look sad while doing it, and ruin Arthur’s mood. Others, like Merlin, would get spiteful and rebellious, but then he would simply dismiss them from their service, and wait for the next one to come.

“Try and keep this one for longer than a fortnight, Arthur,” his father had warned. “I’m growing tired of your pickiness. Know that this servant will be your last, whatever that entails.”

It was only the threat of having to dress himself each morning that stopped him from firing Merlin at the drop of a hat - and obviously nothing more than that. Merlin was nothing special, Arthur reassured himself, and he would get rid of him if it proved necessary. 

And it was starting to seem that way, as Merlin had a terrible habit of never being around when Arthur needed him most. It shouldn’t have mattered if it was late, or that he sometimes had errands to run for Gaius, or other duties to attend to in the castle - his primary duty should have always been to please his prince above all others.

This was the speech Arthur had prepared late one night, as he stomped through the castle’s lower levels, towards Merlin’s room. He was eagerly imagining what his response might be, so that he could come up with a good rebuttal in advance, when he opened the door to Gaius’ chambers.

“Gaius, have you seen-” He began, but stopped short at the shocking sight before him. A pretty girl had just stepped out from Merlin’s room, wearing his clothes, and she too was frozen in place.

★

“Come on…” Merlin whispered in frustration, reading attentively from his spellbook. His candles (he had lit more than what might be considered safe) were turning into puddles.

He’d been at this for what felt like ages, but he hadn’t had many opportunities to devote himself to improving his magic since arriving in Camelot, what with Arthur running him ragged all the time. Finally, in the privacy of his tiny bedroom, he wanted to give it a shot. He’d never even seen a spellbook in Ealdor, let alone held one in his hand. But Gaius had a whole stash concealed within his chambers, and it seemed a waste for Merlin not to read them.

He put the book down on his bed, and for a moment met the tired eyes of the dark haired boy who sat across from his bed. 

For as long as Merlin could remember, he had found his own reflection unconvincing, in a way that he could not articulate to his mother, or to Will. This time was no different. He stared himself down, and felt that he was looking at an imposter. 

He closed his eyes, and whispered to himself.

“Corpus, corpori, corpus transmutatur. Cogitant quod mutatum est corporis mei, sed cogitandi mea mutata est figura corporis mei. Cogitantmutat figura corporis mei. Sed putem ego sum quicumque sum. Ego sum qui sum.”

He opened his eyes. In the mirror, he saw a woman with long dark hair. She smiled, and Merlin was instantly reminded of Morgana. 

Morgana was much more beautiful, Merlin acknowledged, and the woman in the mirror resembled him more, but she had that same raven black hair, with the same waviness as Morgana’s. And she had that same quality of softness that was not quite soft, but was just enough that it could be considered womanly. And the bone structure; the prominent cheekbones which Merlin hated on himself, but loved in his reflection now. He hadn’t realized before that they were like Morgana’s - Morgana’s cheeks, which, like all of her, were pretty.

 _Merlin_ was pretty. He touched his face, still unconvinced, but wanting to believe.

Excited, he jumped up and sang, “Oh, Gaius! Look what I’ve done.”

He opened his bedroom door and stepped out, just as Prince Arthur entered.

“Gaius, have you seen…” Arthur froze, as his eyes landed on Merlin, who was also frozen.

“Merlin…”

Gaius, who had been very invested in his herb-mixing, looked up from his workbench to see what was the matter. He looked first at Arthur, whose mouth was trying and failing to form words. Then he looked where Arthur was staring, where only Merlin could be standing, and raised a judgemental brow.

“My apologies,” Arthur said, clearing his throat. “I was not informed that Merlin… had a guest. Um. Gaius. When you see him, tell him that there is a rat currently in my chambers, and that I require his assistance. ”

“I’ll tell him the moment I lay eyes on him.”

Merlin smiled and nodded awkwardly, looking around so as not to look Arthur in the eye.

In a thin, high pitched voice which he hoped was passable, he excused himself, and disappeared back into his room. He closed the door behind himself and leaned against it, now returned to his normal form.

Arthur looked at Gaius, but he - giving nothing away - was once again consumed by his herbs.

“Well,” Arthur said, still in shock. “Goodnight, I suppose.”

“Yes goodnight, sire.”

Without another word, Arthur was gone.

Hearing the door close, Merlin poked his head out. Satisfied that Arthur had left, he looked at Gaius, who seemed determined not to be diverted from his current task.

“Well,” Merlin proposed. “What did you think?”

“I think you should remain in your room if you wish to experiment with your image.”

“I didn’t think I’d have to. It’s not exactly typical for Prince Arthur to come barging into a servant’s quarters, is it? He thinks it’s beneath him.”

“Well what is a prince to do when his lowly servant is nowhere to be found?”

“I’d be easier to find if he weren’t so irritating. And anyways, I’ve finished with my chores for the day. He’s already been fed, burped, and put to bed. What more could he possibly want?”

“If I heard correctly, he has a bit of a rat problem.”

“He hardly needs me for that. He’s got a sword and a shield, I think he can handle a rodent.”

Merlin shook his head and took a seat by Gaius, looking back and forth between him and the meadowsweet he was grinding. When he realized that Gaius would not be influenced in any way by the force of his staring, Merlin finally spoke.

“Can I tell you about the spell I did?”

“Can I tell _you_ about the healing powder that must be ready by tomorrow morning, which _you_ failed to prepare like I had asked you to, in order to save my aging hands some labor?”

Calmly, Merlin took the pestle from him. Gaius looked up at him finally, and pushed the mortar and the herbs into his hands. Merlin looked at the delicate, creamy white flowers, and got to work grinding them down.

“A glamour,” Gaius said matter-of-factly. “I know of it already. It is simple enough for an experienced sorcerer to change their appearance. To sustain the transformation, and to then assume the personality of another, is its own challenge.”

Merlin grinned. “I did well, didn’t I?

“Well enough to fool Arthur.”

“Well that doesn’t take much effort, does it?”

“Was that your first time attempting a spell of that nature?”

“First time attempting a spell for it, yes.” 

“You’ve done it before?

“Only accidentally. A few times when I was young. Little things would change about me, randomly, like my height, or the shape of my nose. And then one day I got in trouble with this old man, who made a living selling books. I asked if I could work for him, to bring home some extra money for my mother, and he refused. He said no one would buy from me. I didn’t understand why he was being so rude, and I got mad. So I stole one of his books, thinking he didn’t see me. But he did. I ran, but he caught up to me somehow. Grabbed my shoulder and spun me around to face him. But he looked at me all confused. He told me he thought I was someone else, and he let me go. I thought he was just crazy, until I got home, and my mother couldn’t recognize me either. But she always said, all those other times I’d changed, that I could never alter my eyes for some reason. That was how she knew that I was me. I spent the whole night trying to get myself back to normal, but it wouldn’t work. We both thought I’d be stuck that way forever. But when I woke up the next morning, I was myself, and my mother made me promise never to do it again.”

“Many would go to very drastic lengths to take on the appearance of another. It amazes me that a child could be capable of all that.”

Merlin ground the flowers nervously. They smelled sweeter, the more he crushed them. He took a deep breath. It was strange being exceptional, and he wasn’t sure how to react to the news that he was. Of course he’d known he was different, having been born a sorcerer in a village of normal people. But he’d always expected, when compared to other sorcerers, that he could be considered one of many. That most people with magic had the sort of abilities that he did, and just had to learn to control them. Being exceptional was something he thought he’d have to work at, to become. But ever since he’d met Gaius, he’d been telling him that that he had been that all along, and Merlin could never quite tell if it was a good thing or a bad thing. Certainly, it was something to fear. If he was already outstanding, he’d probably be easier to identify for the magic hating knights which now surrounded him. But it was also something exciting, something incredibly confirming, to know that he was what he wanted to be - talented. It made him want to smile, but not in front of Gaius, so he suppressed it.

“It was instinctual, I suppose. I haven’t been able to do it since then, though. Too scared. Until tonight. I admit it was much easier back then. This time it took a lot of concentration.”

“That is to be expected.”

Suddenly, a worried look appeared on Merlin’s face, that stopped him in the middle of his herb grinding. 

“Do you think my magic has grown weaker from disuse?”

“Your magic is far from weak, Merlin. In truth, I sometimes thank the powers that be for the many obstacles they’ve placed in your path. I shudder to imagine what you’d be like now, had you been allowed to practice without restraint.”

“Thanks, I guess. Well you said it was to be expected that I struggled?”

“Because that book you’ve been reading from is full of nonsense. That’s why I hid it from you. I should have known, you’re such a fool, that concealing it would only interest you further. It was written in a shoddy approximation of Latin by someone who clearly failed in their studies, for people who aren’t willing to do more than whisper a bit of gibberish to themselves from the comfort of their bed. Spells like these hardly ever yield any result, and when they do they often come with nasty side effects. Like bad breath. Any half decent sorcerer would struggle greatly to achieve anything with it, and any amateur would find a greater guarantee for success at a wishing well. I’m not sure if it’s your lack of learning or your abundance of power which has made this work for you, but who knows how long you would’ve been able to maintain it for, and at what cost. If you’d like to learn glamours, I suggest one from the book I gave you. Something that involves more ritual, and more respect for the practice. Or better yet, do the exercises I’ve assigned you. Work on your recitation, learn the names of the Gods and Goddesses, and improve your Latin before you fall victim to the works of another charlatan.”

Merlin yawned, eliciting the full force of Gaius’s brows.

“Absolutely, I will. It’s just, well, you know this is all new to me. I never used spells before coming here, and I never did any rituals or invoked any deities either. My magic was always just about… me. About how I felt and what I wanted. It’s instinctual. Isn’t that how it should be? Isn’t it supposed to come from inside? All this other stuff confuses me.”

“It’s true, ‘all this other stuff’ is not the source of your magic, although many consider it to be. The source is embedded in the very fabric of reality, in all living things, including you. But whether you can use it or not, depends on if you can receive it. If you can allow it to flow through you, uninhibited, and if you can then _focus_ on it enough to master it. You have proven yourself to be an adept receiver, but you need to learn to focus. That’s what spells are for. Language is one of many tools of magic, because the act of speaking out loud helps us to focus our desires beyond the vagueness of our thoughts. Even gibberish spells like yours can work - sometimes better, for people like you who don’t know what half the words mean, but believe in their power nonetheless. But if you insist, I can train you to do magic more accurately without an incantation. Although such a feat it is beyond my own abilities, it may be well within yours, if you can get that wandering mind under control.”

“All right. Let’s do it.”

“All right. Close your eyes.”

Merlin closed his eyes.

“And focus only on your breath. Inhale”

He took a deep breath in.

“Exhale.”

He did.

“And again. Keep doing it. Once you have found a rhythm, imagine-”

Gaius was cut off by the sound of Merlin’s snoring. Disappointed, he shook his head, and retired to his bedroom, leaving Merlin sleeping with the pestle still in hand, and the meadowsweet aroma following him into his dreams.

★

“Merlin, you idiot, he’s right there!” Arthur shouted from atop his lavish bed, where he was currently standing (half dressed) to get a better view of the battle field (the floor), so that he could give Merlin the most useful directions - and also so that he could avoid having his feet scurried over by the rat.

“Yes I can actually see that,” Merlin said. He was currently on his hands and knees, and had chased the rat into the corner between Arthur’s bed and the wall. 

“Then why haven’t you captured him?”

“I haven’t really got anything to catch him with.”

“You have hands don’t you?! Wait, I have a sword - I shall stab it.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. The rat was breathing hard, and looking around for an escape route that did not exist. It was afraid, Merlin understood.

Arthur moved to grab his sword, and while he was distracted Merlin let his eyes flash golden, capturing the rat’s attention. 

“ _Curre,”_ He whispered. He and the rat shared a moment of understanding. Then, the rat darted off, faster than any rat has ever run.

Merlin felt Arthur jump onto the bed.

“What in God’s name?!”

“It got away.”

“Do you think I’m blind?”

Merlin stood. “I think you’re stupid,” he said under his breath. He was immediately assaulted by a royal pillow.

“Well I’m not deaf.” Still on the bed, and clinging to it fearfully, Arthur looked around. “Where did it go?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Merlin said, feigning bewilderment as he pushed aside the curtains, as if he expected it to be hiding behind them. He wasn’t entirely sure though where his magic word had sent the rodent, and so he thought it was within the realm of possibility for him to find the creature there. Probably not though. Probably, it would keep running and never stop until it died of exhaustion or fell into some body of water. Merlin hoped of course that this would not be the case, and had intended only for it to run as far as it needed to be safe from Arthur’s ire. But magic was a fickle thing, he had learned, and often did whatever it wanted. Usually, it wanted to be ironic.

Arthur sat down, rolling his eyes. “Could you be any more useless?”

“If I were, I’d be the prince of Camelot. Alas,” Merlin sighed. “The role has already been filled.”

“Ha ha,” Arthur said drily. “Is that why you now play the role of a thorn in my side?”

“Someone must.”

“Really? And why is that?”

“So you can see what you are to the rest of the world-” Merlin paused for dramatic effect. Arthur raised his brows, threatening him to finish.

“A prick-”

Arthur threw another pillow at his head, this time with devastating accuracy.

Merlin felt that Arthur had been giving him an especially hard time ever since the glamour incident. He’d barely had time to wake up, before he was forced into locating and drawing out this harmless rat. 

For the rest of the morning, Arthur was unbearable. He’d made Merlin do all of the usual things, like prepare a bath and dress him. But before he could escape to fetch his breakfast, which he’d been looking forward to if only for the chance to leave the room, there was a knock at the door.

Puzzled, Merlin opened it, to find another servant staring rudely at him. Merlin only barely recognized him as part of the general labor pool. His job was to do anything that wasn’t already being done. Consequently, he did most things, unhappily.

“I’ve requested that another servant bring my food,” Arthur explained as the man pushed past Merlin. He placed the tray down quietly, and disappeared in the same way (as servants are _meant_ to do). 

“I’m confused. When did you have time to do that?”

“I did it before you arrived. You were late as always, so I had plenty of time.”

“Well… why?” Merlin asked, still upset at having missed what little alone time he would have gotten on the walk to kitchen and back.

“So that _you_ can stay here and focus on the rats,” Arthur continued through a mouthful of fruit.

“Rats? Plural? I thought you only saw the one.”

“Yes Merlin. Everyone knows, where you find one rat you're bound to find more. That one was just a baby - where’s the mother? Where are the siblings?”

Merlin blinked incredulously, his mouth forming a thin, impatient line.

“You’re right. It’s a good thing you’re on the case, sire.”

“No, Merlin. You’re on the case. I’m supervising.” He bit into his bread aggressively, as if there were some correlation between the strength of his chewing and his level of impressiveness. 

Merlin shook his head. “Haven’t you got anything else to do today? Anything more important?”

“Of course I have, but you haven’t. That’s why _you_ are not to leave this room until you’ve sorted this whole thing out. No time for socializing today, I’m afraid,” Arthur said with a smug smile.

Merlin furrowed his brows. He sometimes spoke to Gwen in passing, and always with Lancelot when he wasn’t busy doing knight-y things, but between Arthur and Gaius, he rarely had time to do anything close to socializing. The few moments he’d stolen for himself, he spent in solitude. 

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. Just that I expect you to focus more on your duties from now on.” He turned his back, pretending to adjust the curtains, which Merlin saw through right away. Usually if Arthur wanted the curtains fixed, he’d bark at Merlin to do it. This was, obviously, a pretense.

“So whatever’s been distracting you,” Arthur added sharply. “It can wait.”

Merlin blinked. Then he smiled. Finally he understood - Arthur had not forgotten seeing Merlin’s glamour the night before, a fact equally as terrifying as it was amusing. He knew he should have just gone along with what Arthur clearly believed - that he had been entertaining a woman, so to speak, and not transforming into one. He should have pretended to have been caught in the act, so as to avoid attracting any real suspicion. Of course Merlin was distracted. He was always distracted, but not by women. Most of all lately, he was distracted by terrible dreams. 

It had become a nightly occurrence, ever since the dream he’d had about the red dragon, during one of his first nights in Camelot. Though he knew it could just have been a trick of the mind, he was certain it was the same one he’d dreamt of during his first visit to Camelot, when he was a child. It looked much older now than it had been in his youth, less red, meaner, and in chains; and it spoke to him with great urgency of things he could no longer remember. Of the few things he could recall, one was its name, Kilgharrah, and its promise that Merlin was destined for greatness. This part pleased Merlin very much, until Kilgarrah revealed that he would only achieve such greatness at Arthur’s side. Merlin disregarded the dream the moment he woke from it, but it left him unable to see Arthur the way he knew him to be - extremely annoying and full of himself. Since then, Merlin had often found himself wondering, searching Arthur’s face and demeanor for some sign that he might actually become the great man the dreams said he would be. That maybe, somewhere very deep down, he might have already been that man. That somehow, if he tried very hard at it, Merlin could bring that greatness out of him. That Merlin was, in fact, the only person capable. That, he could occasionally convince himself of, but not without feeling like he was falling into a trap.

The rest of the dreams were similar, always involving the dragon, and usually Arthur - though sometimes there would be others, like Morgana or Gwen; sometimes Lancelot, and sometimes people Merlin had never met before. These dreams were so vivid, so engrossing and frightening, that Merlin would wake from them feeling drained. By the time he’d get hold of some parchment and a pen to try and record them, the dreams would disappear from his memory - not that he really had the time to journal anyways, when he was always running around doing some silly task or another, like picking flowers or scrubbing Arthur’s horrendous floor, which always ended up dirty regardless of how thoroughly it was cleaned. Merlin tried to point that out, but Arthur would not have it. He demanded thorough cleaning.

And through it all, Merlin would find himself riddled with inexplicable anxiety. His hands would shake as he did mundane things. As he ground down herbs, or poured Arthur’s wine. 

All his life, he had been busy cataloguing all the possible ways that his life could go wrong, and trying to stop them from happening. Now he was starting to realize that he had some power in that area - he actually _could_ stop bad things from happening. The knowledge of his potential terrified him more than it should have - that he might be as powerful as Gaius said he was, and still make the sort of stupid mistakes he was prone to making. What would the consequences of his failures be now? It was certainly better, he thought, to be quiet and risk nothing, than to try to ensure Camelot’s future and risk it all. 

But what if he _could_ do it? What if he was the only one who could?

That Arthur could tell his mind was elsewhere meant he was failing to be inconspicuous about it. But it was hard to be as scared as he should’ve been, when Arthur’s face was turning red, and he too was failing to be inconspicuous. 

Merlin tilted his head innocently. “You think I’m distracted?”

“Merlin. I know you are.”

“Distracted by what, exactly?”

“Do I really have to say it?”

“I would prefer it if you did, since I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Merlin. You’re about as terrible a liar as you are a servant.”

Merlin blinked, and Arthur scoffed.

“Okay, Merlin. Since you insist on hearing me say it. I saw her, leaving your room. And I sincerely hope it’s not what I’m thinking, for the sake of that poor girl and my sanity.”

Merlin shook his head, still feigning confusion. “You saw… who exactly? And what are you thinking?”

Arthur glared at him, then said, “You know what? Nothing at all. I saw nothing, and I think nothing.”

“I know,” Merlin chuckled. Arthur’s face was on fire, and Merlin felt he could not go on teasing him forever. It was one of Arthur’s few endearing faults, how shy he could be when it came to romance.

“Perhaps you saw my sister,” Merlin relented. “She came for a visit.” He was watching Arthur carefully, and could see the relief flash across his face.

“What a relief,” Arthur admitted, before quickly adding, “I was having a very hard time picturing you, Merlin, being with a pretty girl. It just didn’t seem right.”

“Oh you think she’s pretty? I’ll be certain to tell her. She’ll be disgusted.”

“I’m sure she’ll be overjoyed. Anyways, I’m afraid I have no more time to chat. Like I said, I have business to attend to.”

“Like what?”

“Lots of things, Merlin, things which you are unlikely to understand. But most importantly, I’m to accompany my father and Morgana in welcoming our guests from Northumbria.” There was a hint of distaste in Arthur’s voice as he fiddled with the sleeves of his dark blue tunic.

“You mean King Olaf and his daughter?” Merlin remembered hearing Gwen and Morgana mention them briefly. The daughter’s name was Viviane, and Morgana was excited for her arrival, sending Gwen back and forth through the citadel to fetch gifts, gowns, and furnishings. Rarely had Merlin seen Gwen in the days prior without an armful of fabrics, nor was she ever walking at a normal pace, but sprinting, dropping things and needing Merlin to open doors for her. When he did, she would duck her head shyly and apologize, before rushing away. It was unusual to see Gwen so busy, when Morgana was so against overworking her, and preferred just to have her company. 

So Merlin knew this visit was important, and that The Lady Viviane was important to her.

“Yes, actually” Arthur answered, as though he was impressed that Merlin even knew their names. “And their retinue. They come around this time each year, and they always overstay their welcome. I predict that this may be their longest visit yet.”

“You don’t seem very excited about their arrival.”

“How could you tell?” 

“Well what’s wrong with them?”

“What isn’t? They’ve been burdening me with their presence ever since I turned 13, as a plot between my father and hers, to force the two of us together. It’s excruciating.”

“Is she particularly unpleasant?”

“Extremely. You’d do well to stay away from her. She’s vicious, and she hates me - so she’ll probably hate you too. There’s supposed to be a ball in a few days time, to celebrate the start of winter, so they say. I think it’s just an excuse to make us dance. I’ll need you there to assist me in avoiding her.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Arthur said. “Once you’ve finished with the rats, of course.” 

“Do you really expect me to stay here all day?”

“Merlin, do not mistake me, while usually it would be customary for you to remain at my side, at all times,” he emphasised. “I shall spare you this once, and only because Viviane…” He drew his eyebrows together, searching for the right words. 

“Is a beast,” he concluded. This was not the whole truth. 

Yes, Viviane was a beast, but the whole truth was that she enjoyed humiliating Arthur in front of people she thought he would like to impress. And these people were never the people Arthur _actually_ wanted to impress - those people were his father, people his father wanted him to impress, and occasionally God. It was always those of the lesser classes - servants, grooms, blacksmiths and the like - for whom Viviane liked to make a fool of Arthur. The implication that he might care at all what someone like Merlin thought of him was almost more humiliating than whatever she could think of to say. Usually, the things she said were innocuous to any looker-on, so that the blush creeping across his cheeks would be the only thing of note. People would question not what she had said, but how it could possibly affect him so. And they would wonder, what could it possibly have to do with his servant?

He feared that Viviane, being of a calculating, mean-spirited, and perverted mind, might dream up such a notion out of boredom. Probably, she would try to flirt with him. He could envision the entire scene playing out before him. She would make some embarrassing comment about something disgraceful that Arthur had done in his youth, and then look at him and smirk, while Merlin stood behind him, his reaction visible for all eyes but Arthur’s own. “Have I embarrassed you in front of your _cute_ servant?” she would not need to ask, for all the implications of her words would be made painfully clear.

“Consider yourself lucky. But I could always give you more chores if you’re eager for a way to pass the time,” Arthur said smugly.

“Oh, I should be very occupied by the rats, I think.”

“Of course you do,” Arthur answered, sauntering out.

Merlin stood in the empty room for a few moments, unsure what to do, and unsure what to make of Arthur’s words, but he was certain that Viviane was nothing like what Arthur described. He was a terrible judge of character, and very easy to antagonize, which his rivalry with Morgana was proof of.

He went to the window, waiting to see Arthur’s golden head emerge from the castle doors, and looked out onto the main square just in time to witness the visiting party from Northumbria, in all its extravagance. The knights came first, in vibrant gold and purple, followed by King Olaf’s carriage, which seemed to be bursting with activity. Merlin discovered the source of it when the carriage doors opened, and a gaggle of lively young women came bustling out. It was surprisingly difficult to know which one was Viviane, until King Olaf emerged and took her by the arm. She had the elaborate clothing and the self-important posture of a princess, but not much else. She was short, and younger than Arthur. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. Her hair was blonde, and her face was drawn into a scowl. Two older men, presumably the king’s advisors, followed closely behind them. Even from this distance, Merlin felt he could read her thoughts, just from the look on her face. It seemed like she was wishing they would leave her alone, and it occurred to him that maybe they were there to keep her from turning and running away.

Then he saw Arthur being ushered forward by King Uther’s hand, placed firmly on his shoulder. It reminded Merlin of the livestock in his village, when the farmers wanted two of them to mate. They bowed to each other, stiffly, and exchanged what Merlin could only assume were bored salutations. Then Morgana came running, and Viviane broke away from her father to meet her embrace. Her scowl finally dissolved, and she became like her companions in the carriage - full of life, and overjoyed to live it.

Considering himself finished with the rats, Merlin turned to leave, but found Gwen staring at him from the doorway. Her hand was poised to knock, but frozen just before the point of contact. Embarrassed, she put it down. “I’m sorry, I was only passing by, and um. Sorry - are you… watching-”

“-Uh… watching the - yes I am.”

“Can I join you, or are they all done?”

He turned to look, and while his back was turned Gwen shook her head at herself, cursing her awkwardness. He looked at her again, and she beamed. “It seems like they’re just talking now. How long do these things usually last? The part where they just stand outside and talk, I mean.”

She stood next to him. “Not too much longer, I’m sure. Soon enough they’ll move the talking indoors, so as not to disgrace their guests by keeping them standing out in the sun too long.”

“Ah. That makes sense.”

Then there was silence, while they both stared out the window, blinking. Gwen felt that it took great effort to blink, all of a sudden, and to stare. Her eyes would focus on nothing, but wanted desperately to turn and look at him.

“Yes this part is pretty boring,” she said finally. “The parties are where all the interesting stuff happens. I don’t get many opportunities to mingle, but Morgana fills me in on all the juicy bits. Oh - not that I’m saying she’s a gossip, of course. Just, she obviously knows all the interesting things that go on in court, and she tells me. It’s how we entertain ourselves. Like did you know that that girl right there is one of The Lady Viviane’s cousins? Last Summer she was caught having, um, relations with a blacksmith, and her reputation was nearly destroyed. Her family disowned her. Despite the scandal, Viviane insisted on taking her in. She’s supposed to be trying to find herself a suitor, but it seems like none of the eligible men in Northumbria will marry her. So coming to Camelot is meant to be a very big deal for her. Her only chance at turning her reputation around is to find a man.”

“Well is her life as a court lady so terrible, that she can’t just stay there, rather than be married off?”

“Well that’s just the thing. She loves being a court lady, especially in Viviane’s court. She’s very generous with her ladies, and they enjoy a certain level of freedom and status that they would not have anywhere else.” Anywhere else, including Camelot, Gwen thought to herself. “The problem is that staying is not really an option for them, now that Viviane is of age to be married. They must either attract suitors for themselves, or go with her to her new home, and hope that her husband is as tolerant of their presence as King Olaf. It is a precarious position to be in.” One which Gwen also found herself in, but which she was trying not to think too hard about. 

“Do you think that will be Arthur then? The husband?” It was hard to imagine Arthur as a husband to anyone, when Merlin had gotten to know him as a filthy, smelly, prat. That he could one day become the great, chivalrous king that Merlin’s dreams foretold seemed an even further notion. It seemed impossible - and even more unlikely that Merlin would be “at his side,” as the dragon Kilgarrah had said. But it was nice to imagine sometimes, just before bed, and to have these dreams of status and camaraderie. Of being known - by an older, tamer Arthur, and by an older, tamer Camelot.

Gwen nodded. “It’s certainly the most likely outcome, despite their animosity. And it is the most advantageous for both kingdoms. Uther and Olaf are good friends, bonded by their love of war and strategy. I imagine that being bonded by family would only unite them further, giving them each a guaranteed ally in times of conflict, probably for generations to come.”

“And would it be good for Morgana as well, do you think? It seems that she and Viviane are close. If Viviane marries Arthur, Morgana would have more time with her.”

“Well, their time would only last for as long as Morgana is allowed to remain in Camelot.”

“Oh,” Merlin said.

“It’s a wonder she’s stayed here as long as she has. Uther is an opportunist, and as much as he dotes on Morgana, she knows he is anxious to give her away. For a good price of course. She does what she can to prevent it, but there’s not much that can actually be done.”

“That’s sad.”

“It is,” she agreed. It got quiet.

“It must be a terrible life. I mean, obviously not the part where you get to live in a castle and have servants at your beck and call, and all the food and clothes and riches you could ever ask for. But, being traded around like animals, or… bargaining chips.”

“It’s just the way things go, I suppose,” she sighed, watching the people shuffling on the main square. “Oh, I think they’re moving inside now.” She looked at him, wanting to say more. 

“Well it was nice chatting with you, Merlin. Um, you will be attending the ball this week won’t you?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Though only to act as Arthur’s shield, in case The Lady Viviane tries to shoot an arrow at him.”

Gwen snorted, then covered her mouth to hide it. When Merlin failed to mock her, she explained herself. “That is very likely, actually. They’ve been at each other’s throats since they were children, and she is a very capable archer.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. She earned herself the title of ‘The Damsel Huntress’ - and not just for her skill with a bow,” she added discreetly. “But that is its own story, for another time I think. I’m very busy today, and I’m sure you are too.”

“Not if I don’t have to be,” he shrugged. “Strangely, Arthur only gave me one task for today, and I think I’m more or less finished. I would like to know more about this _Damsel Huntress_ actually.”

Gwen wanted so badly to abandon her chores, and spend the whole day talking with him. It was one of the longest interactions they’d ever had, without Merlin having to run somewhere (usually to Arthur) in the middle of it. She didn’t have many worthy conversation partners in the castle besides Morgana. Most of the knights and various advisors ignored her presence, and she was beginning to think it was not just because of her status as a lady’s maid, but because she was easy to ignore. She was friendly with the other servants in the castle and in the citadel, but being Morgana’s maid meant she would always feel distant from them socially. Though they did many of the same chores, and came from the same backgrounds, there was a hierarchy imposed upon their positions, and hers was very near the top, as far as servants went. Merlin was just a step higher, being a servant to the heir, but close enough that he was beginning to understand what it was like being in her place. It helped that he was funny and charming, and very good to talk to; but with Arthur’s servants there was always the issue of brevity, and Gwen was afraid she had already become hopelessly attached, and would inevitably have to deal with losing him very soon.

She smiled sweetly. “Well then you should enjoy the day while you can. Arthur will certainly have a very long list of chores for you to do tomorrow.”

“Well _I_ will certainly be pressing you for more details later.”

Was he flirting? Gwen felt her face burning, and laughed to calm herself. “Well, don’t expect me to give them all away so easily,” she joked. Then, trying to be serious, she added, “Oh, but I’d really rather not have Viviane turning her wrath on me if she discovers I’ve been telling stories about her.”

He tilted his head, and his eyes crinkled playfully, in a way that drove her mad.

“Are they really stories if they’re true?” He asked.

“Well I’d like to keep them from turning into stories, thank you,” she answered firmly. He nodded and said all right, staring at the floor and pretending to be ashamed. She laughed at him, and he looked up again, pleased to be thought of as amusing.

“Really, they’ll be showing her to her room any minute, and I’m sure Morgana will be with her. I have to be ready to attend to them. But I’ve seen Lancelot on the training grounds not too long ago, you should go find him.”

‘Seen’ was the wrong word, when what she’d really done was watch, as he tossed his hair around and glimmered with sweat. Another one of the great things about Merlin’s arrival in Camelot was that he brought Lancelot with him. But Merlin didn’t need to know that; no one did, except maybe Morgana, who could appreciate a beautiful man, and wouldn’t hesitate to comment when she saw one. 

Merlin’s eyes lit up with genuine excitement, then dimmed a little. “He might be busy too. Ever since he became a knight he’s been… preoccupied with knighty things.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Gwen said sincerely. Merlin and Lancelot might as well have walked into Camelot arm in arm, they were so close, and even shared a room in the days before Lancelot was made a knight. Though she had never been in Merlin’s room, she knew there could not have been more than one bed, and so they must have shared the one. She was unsure if they were lovers, but could not bring herself to ask, and was mortified to find herself infatuated with them both. In any case, she empathized with Merlin. She knew what it was like when Morgana “Perhaps today, then, since you’ve got a bit of free time.”

“Yes, perhaps,” he said. Then, suddenly seeming convinced, he added, “Yes maybe you’re right.”

Lancelot was still on the training grounds, but Merlin did not find him there. He had been training with Sir Bedivere and Sir Leon, and a group of young squires who hoped to be made knights. From afar, it did not look unusual at all - Lancelot was twenty-two years old, and the squires ranged from as young as fifteen to as old as twenty-one - but to him it felt very unusual. He knew that he was too old to be a squire, and - Arthur had assured him - too valuable to not be made a knight. Arthur had also assured him that these training sessions with the squires were merely a formality, so that the other knights (who had spent most of their childhoods in training) would not cry favoritism. It was a formality, Lancelot reminded himself many times. Yet, it felt to him like a punishment. It felt as though the whole world knew him, not as the knight he wished to be, but as the imposter he knew he was. It had been on his mind all day, and every day since his knighting ceremony; and it was on his mind as Bedivere invited him to spar.

“Show them how it’s done, won’t you?” he’d requested, in reference to the squires. They had performed disgracefully that day, without tact or passion. 

Passion, which Bedivere said was the most important thing, was what Lancelot had in abundance. “A passion for fighting, for swordwork, for life, and for one’s lord. Passion,” Bedivere said. “And Loyalty.”

Lancelot gripped his wooden sword tighter, afraid that it might slip from his sweaty hands. He stepped forward, while the humbled squires watched him. Bedivere was still looking at them, even as Lancelot stood before him, so as not to release them from his judgement. Lancelot hoped that he would only need to display the proper technique - attack, counter attack, back and forth a few times until one of them yielded, then bow. Then he could disappear once more into the group and avoid making a fool of himself.

Bedivere finally locked eyes with Lancelot, and in that instant it was clear what he meant when he spoke of passion. He lunged. 

Lancelot stepped back just in time to miss the blow Bedivere had aimed at his chest, and was barely quick enough to meet the next. Bedivere seemed furious, slashing at Lancelot as though he meant to kill him. He knew he was expected to fight with the same ferocity, but his body seemed convinced that he should be defeated, as if this battle were nothing more than a scene for him to act out, and he was playing the role of the loser. He moved in all the ways that he was known for, deftly and with good form, and it was clear to anyone watching that he was putting in the effort. Bedivere was an exceptional fighter, perhaps more so than even Arthur, but he had weaknesses like any other man. He could fight with only his right hand, as he had lost his left tin battle, and often abandoned his shield entirely - as he did now. It was his most obvious fault, which meant that he was flaunting it, and that he would not let it be exploited. There were other things Lancelot noticed which he could’ve gone for, like the stiffness of his knees, or his overworked right shoulder. But he went for the hand, aiming his sword at Bedivere’s exposed left side, and proving his theory correct. Bedivere shifted his body expertly, maneuvering his sword to deflect Lancelot’s, knocking it from his sweaty grip, then knocking him to the ground. He looked down at him with a restrained expression, the kind that many of the most skilled knights were known to make, which Lancelot interpreted as disappointment. 

Leon sighed quietly. “Thank you Lancelot. That concludes our training session,” he said, to spare him any further embarrassment.

“Clean this mess,” Bedivere commanded, gesturing towards the mess of equipment laying in the grass. He stalked off towards the barracks, while the squires stooped to pick up the weapons they had discarded earlier. Leon hung back, waiting for Lancelot to get up, and pretending not to. When Lancelot realized this, he crawled to his feet humbly. He moved to pick up a shield, but Leon stopped him.

“That’s all right, Lancelot. You may retire.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Lancelot.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have you been sleeping well?”

“Not very well, I must admit. Did my swordwork give it away?”

“Your swordwork was perfect as always, Lancelot. It was your spirit that suffered from sleeping outside the barracks, I should think. Winter is upon us now. You won’t want to do that anymore.”

“I was only-”

“Your reasons are yours alone. I only ask that you secure yourself a proper place to rest, and quickly. I apologize that there is not yet room for you in the barracks, but I’m sure someone of your family’s status should have no trouble finding an even better home.”

Lancelot, not knowing what to say, simply bowed. Then, suddenly knowing, he thanked Leon for his graciousness, then turned and went on his way. To where? He was not sure. Wherever his legs would take him, though truthfully he knew where that was likely to be.

Wherever Merlin was, he would inevitably find himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! The plot is super messy and all over the place right now, partly because the og legends, and the show itself are all so inconsistent and wildy different. That's sort of a good thing though, because it means I can do whatever I want!!!
> 
> But yeah, I don't *really* know where I'm going with this, but I do have a lot of ideas, and I just needed an outlet to get them all out.
> 
> Any feedback you have would be so appreciated!!! This also my first fic on here, so pls give me tips if you know any.
> 
> Thanks again <3


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